Black ink spills onto ancient paper, secular amulets for ephemeral truths.
A journey read not through lines visible, but depths carved absence as palpable presence.
What thoughts echo realities forsaken, linger walls abandoned? Are cries palpable only where silence casts a landscape?
The corridor breathes in whispers—its ghostly sighs layer over palimpsests where shadows linger much after the light gives way.
We're seekers who find only our reflections in the vacuity of where-immediate-moments-thought lost to us.
Are our souls footprints lost upon scrolling murmurs exchanged in lore, shadows hidden inherently within what remained bare?